


little boy blue and the man in the moon

by The-Immortal-Moon (LunaKat)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Character Study, Family Dynamics, Gen, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist (2003)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/The-Immortal-Moon
Summary: This is the last place Wrath wants to be.





	little boy blue and the man in the moon

This is the last place Wrath wants to be.

He wouldn’t be here at all if Alphonse weren’t so keen about running something by his teacher—some lead, some alchemy-ish thing that Wrath doesn’t entirely understand. Something that may hold the key to getting his stupid brother back. Something he wanted a second opinion on. Why that second opinion had to be from Izumi Curtis, Wrath will never know.

(Well, it could be for the fact that she is a master alchemist, and Alphonse doesn’t exactly  _know_  very many master alchemists, but still, it annoys Wrath in ways he can’t even begin to explain)

Something on Wrath’s face must have showed his discontent with this course of action, because while they were on the train, Alphonse lowered his book and gently suggested that Wrath could get off at the next stop and wait for him, if he wasn’t keen on going to Dublith. But true to his sin, anger welled in Wrath’s stomach at the perceived dismissal and he, quite indignantly, asserted that he could go anywhere he wanted, meeting Alphonse’s attempts to placation with accusations of the alchemist trying to be rid of him. They went back and forth for what must have been half an hour before Alphonse threw his hands up in exasperation and declared that if Wrath wanted to accompany him, he was well within his rights. Wrath, seeing this as a victory, retorted fiercely that he would.

In hindsight, it was probably Alphonse’s considerate nature that brought about the suggestion. Even now, Wrath isn’t sure how much Alphonse is currently aware of his nature—his origins, his ties to the woman Alphonse calls “Teacher”, his birthplace on Yock Island. But if he is, it would be just like Alphonse to spare someone’s feelings. And it would be just like Wrath, the flawed and broken thing that he is, to misconstrue that.

So thanks to his own stubbornness, Wrath finds himself haunting the streets of Dublith like the phantom he is. Because he’s an idiot, because he’s flawed, because he’s stupid and foolish and inhuman and—

Gazes linger on him. He tells itself its probably more from his unusual attire and exposed automail than actual recognition, because these people don’t know him, let alone the person he was  _supposed_  to be. Still, an uncomfortable prickle takes residence low in his throat, no matter how much he tries to swallow it down. No amount of ducking his head and pretending they aren’t there makes it abate. It’s only been a few minutes since he split off from Alphonse (because there is no way in  _heck_  he’s returning to Curtis Meats) and he already feels lost.

His pace quickens. Clenches his fists. Less people. He—he needs to find a place with less people.

Maybe the woods...

Yes—the sweet, dark embrace of the forest is always a comfort. The automail is horribly incongruous metal, but the woods will accept him even if he can melt seamlessly into the loam and the vegetation and the whispering life in the bushes. Wrath changes course, shifts his trajectory for the deep shadows cast by thick canopies and the tree roots that break soft earth and the brush of ferns and brambles against his legs like a reassurance. Yes, take him to the seclusion of branches blocking out the world, the murmur of wildlife in the shrubbery, the crunch of sticks beneath his feet.

Anywhere but  _here_.

Iron-wrought gates rise up before him, black and imposing as they bar access. He comes to an abrupt halt. Beyond them, the wilderness sits greenly on the horizon, beckoning, calling, opening it arms wide to embrace him like a mother’s hug—one that longs for him as much as he longs for it.

But between that, separating the woods from his reach, unfolds a massive field of artificially trimmed grasses of a sickly green shade sway when a breeze combs through them. A meadow where flowers don’t grow so much as are laid before tilled soil and wither in the face of frowning, rounded granite heads. Alternating between stately white and dreary grey, stones rise like curious gophers peering out from the ground to check for their own shadow. Angelic statues with arched wings and hands folded in silent prayer perch atop massive slabs, while the occasional mausoleum or two stands stark against the horizon. Spindly trees rise from the ground, but bear no leaves, as though fertility is sheered away before it can even have a chance to bloom.

Eyes wide, Wrath takes a large step back. Another one. Massive stone walls bracket the black gates, crowned by a row of gleaming iron points. Something like bile rises in his throat, surges through his veins, leaves a sharp bitterness washing over his tongue.

Because of course.  _Of course_  he would be drawn towards a stupid  _cemetery_.

There’s a tremor in his shoulders, which he tells himself is  _rage_  and not—not—

Frustration emerges in a growl, his stomping footsteps propelling him back and forth. A metronome of harsh, panting breaths is filtered through clenched teeth. He wants to strangle something. Break something. Knock the gate down with a clatter. Break down the stone walls. Reduce the headstones to dust. Rip the earth open and  _scream_. Fire and brimstone and blood and—

And the wall is solid against his back as he leans on it, trying to ground himself against the maelstrom that whirls against the confines of his skeleton. He pants harshly, squeezing his eyes shut, his heart pounding his ears, hating the _unfairness of it all_ —

As he sinks against the pavement, the next growl comes out more like a whine.

His vision refocuses on the curvature of his kneecaps, the gleaming steel juxtaposed against the sallow flesh. Scarring rings the port where the prosthetic was implanted, pale but present and faintly jagged. Dimly, Wrath wonders if Edward Elric had scars like this.

Probably. Humans are _supposed_ to have scars from things like this. That’s how you know they’re survivors.

The gates of the cemetery gleam at him, and he eyes them through the veil of his hair with some distaste. It’s almost as though they’re trying to intimidate him, ward him off, with the iron spokes that jut out from their top and the latticework of their obsidian frame. As though these gates are the most terrifying thing he’s ever had to face. As though they are any more terrifying than his own inhuman existence. As though they can stand in the way of him—as though he couldn’t just knock them down with a well-aimed kick or rip them right off their hinges.

Fleetingly, he wonders what would happen, if he were to be rid of the gates and wander into this sacred land where the dead slumber uninterrupted. If his abominable presence would rouse the corpses and inspire others to take up his unnatural mantle. The other homunculi were less inclined towards exploring cemeteries—even Envy wasn’t so keen to trespass, as though even he saw something unforgiveable in the act of desecrating the dead. When Wrath inquired about it, though, Envy retorted that they are the dead as well, and it seemed like boasting their second chance at existence to the unlucky.

That doesn’t seem right, upon further reflection. This life now isn’t so much a second chance as it is half of one. And even if it were, Envy wouldn’t have been so skittish of cemeteries over something stupid like that. Envy was never skittish of anything, except the Gate. Only when the Gate appeared before Wrath and took his (stolen) limbs back did he ever see fear on the eldest homunculus’s face.

Maybe it’s a bothersome reminder, the cemeteries. Perhaps homunculi generally find too much likeness in the corpses buried deep beneath the earth for comfort. Maybe they’re afraid they’ll find some remnant of their former selves.

He can still remember how Lust went stiff when he jabbed the locket into her spearing fingers. The wild horror that spread across Sloth’s face when Edward Elric brandished a box of her remains. Maybe it’s _fear_ that keeps most homunculi away.

It wouldn’t be like that for him, though. Wrath  _is_  the body of the person he was meant to be, but warped and desecrated by alchemy’s influence. The humanity was purged from it in an attempt to resurrect the life that never existed. There’s no reminder that his life is false—he  _is_  the reminder.

Frowning, he looks down at his mismatched hands. _Does that_ _make me my own weakness...?_

That is a question Wrath would rather not focus on. He glances at the gates again, eyes the iron-wrought curlicues curiously. Unlike the others, then, he has no reason to shy away from this resting place of the dead—nothing here with render him debilitated. No corpse to enervate him, nothing buried in the ground that can be used to make him fall to his knees. As far as homunculi go, he’s nearly invincible.

_Wonder what they buried instead of me._

He stiffens, suddenly. Had...  _had_  they buried something in his stead? Surely they must have—he’s heard that when bodies aren’t available, people will just take empty coffins and treat them as though they contain the remains, mark the spot with a gravestone anyway. Give the nameless a name and the faceless a face, even if it is stone instead of flesh. Create proof that the life existed, even if the physical evidence is lost.

Surely they must have. Surely. His human life didn’t exist long—didn’t draw a breath—but... they would still have grieved, right?

(Is it... is it wrong to hope they did?)

“Been a while,” comes a voice from behind.

Wrath stiffens and whirls around, eyes wide.

The person who managed to sneak up on him, despite his advanced senses, turns out to be a rather large man. His girth would be intimidating to most—and certainly, his broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms do not instill any particular comfort in Wrath—but primary to wariness is the shame at having been caught so unawares. And in a moment of vulnerability nonetheless.

Ugh.  _Vulnerability_.

An aged wicker basket is held by the handle in a meaty fist, a checkered red-and-white cloth thrown delicately overtop in order to shield the contents from view. Without a word, the man holds the basket out for Wrath to take.

Rather than accept, Wrath turns his wary gaze to the man’s face. His expression is stern, or at least appears to be at first, what with the natural way the man’s mouth is downturned and the thick, dark beard eclipses most of his lower face. Even his brows are bushy, so even when they aren’t furrowed, they give something of a fearsome impression. A small, pale scar rests on his left temple, highlighted against his tanned complexion and compounding upon this intimidating visage. There’s something vaguely familiar about him—frustratingly familiar, actually.

In fact, the longer Wrath stares at the man, the more convinced he is that he  _has_  seen him, somewhere. The man, at least, seems to recognize Wrath instantly—though there’s no fear in his expression, so he’s not someone who has caught a glimpse of Wrath’s more monstrous traits. Rather, it’s more wistful and bereaved, steeped in a silent sorrow. More similar to the look worn by Izumi Curtis when Wrath first—

Wait.

 _Wait a second_.

...oh crud.

Sig. Sig Curtis. The man who, if Wrath had lived, would have been—

Would have been...

Wrath ducks his head and prays. Prays, irrationally, that Sig Curtis will just walk away. Pretend he never saw him. Maybe not recognize him. Please, please, please—

“It’s for you,” Sig Curtis rumbles.

Dangit all to heck.

Without looking up, Wrath snatches the basket in his hand. His _prosthetic_ hand. That feels like an important distinction, somehow. Less personal.

Whoever packed this basket did so with care. White cheesecloth has been bound up in a neat tie with a red ribbon, and Wrath doesn’t need to tear the pouch open to know that wedges of rich cheese are bundled in it. A glass jar of bright yellow apricot jam sits innocuously next to it, wedged between the pouch and a tissue-paper-wrapped lump that radiates a faint coppery smell—freshly sliced meat, most likely. Some warm loaves of bread have been packed carefully next to a few apples that alternate between red and green, positioned to avoid the bread being crushed accidentally. Finally, there’s a tin nestled in the corner, one that is probably home to some baked good that was crafted with loving care, if not purchased from the local bakery.

Scoffing, Wrath replaces the cloth and sets the basket aside. He should feel grateful or touched or something. Not  _disgusted_. Not vaguely ill at the notion of someone doing something  _nice_  for him.

“Did  _she_  send you?” He can’t keep the tremor of anger out of his tone. Can’t forget how her hands felt around his throat when she decided he needed to die, because they both knew he was a monster and even still, she wasn’t strong enough to end it.

“No,” replied Sig Curtis, softly. Wrath doesn’t look at him. “I saw you earlier. Figured you’d want something to eat.”

Snorting, Wrath jabs the side of the basket with his metal toes. “I don’t  _need_  food.”

“Could have fooled me,” comes the response, with just a hint of warmth.

He must be referring to when Wrath first set foot in the Curtis household, when he sat at the dinner table and tried to quail the fierce (inhuman) hunger (for red stones) that gnawed fiercely at his abdomen. Funny, because Wrath doesn’t remember much of Sig Curtis during that time, beyond the one incident where Izumi Curtis smacked Wrath’s hand away when he reached for a third (fourth? fifth?) helping and vaguely noticing the solemn but nonthreatening presence that observed from the kitchen.

To be fair, though, the initial encounter with humanity on Yock Island left him more inclined towards trusting Izumi Curtis and Winry Rockbell—Edward Elric’s burning eyes instilled in him a wariness of the men. So he hadn’t paid mind to any presence that wasn’t immediately reassuring.

Many things escaped his notice, in those days. His mind was still raw and nascent from finally tumbling free of the Gate’s influence—hatred didn’t grace the tender newness of his thoughts until the red stones poisoned him, awakened the slumbering monstrosity that was harbored in his transmuted flesh. And that was after—

After.

It occurs to him, quite suddenly, that this is the first time he and Sig Curtis have met since before the  _after_.

(He wasn’t there on Yock Island, when Wrath’s sin stirred to life, or when Wrath’s blue eyes turned violet and his teeth grew sharp and his inhumanity grew more pronounced)

Oh.

Wrath opens his mouth to say something—and stops, because what is he supposed to  _say_?

While muteness lays its claim to him, Sig Curtis lowers himself to the ground. Wrath watches helplessly as his creator’s husband leans back against the wall, face turned outwards and no words offered in explanation. There is a space between them that serves to accommodate the basket, but it seems far too small, far too little.

Great.  _Another_  reason for Wrath to hate Dublith. He wonders if he could survive being crushed by an anvil—then he wonders where he would even find an anvil right about now.

“So,” Sig Curtis starts and oh god, oh god, oh god. Please let this not be happening. “You and Alphonse?”

“ _What_?!”

Blinking once, Sig turns to face him. “You’re traveling together.”

“Wha—” Well, that, uh. Isn’t entirely untrue? Wrath isn’t sure why he’s strangely relieved and flustered all at once. “N-No, we...”

 _We aren’t_ , he wants to say, but then stops. Reflects. Realizes he has no reasonable explanation for why he came to Dublith, other than to stand his ground against Alphonse. Realizes he has no reasonable explanation for why he even needed to stand his ground against Alphonse in the first place. No reasonable explanation for why they were on the train together, with Alphonse reviewing his notes and Wrath pretending not to notice when he was really trying to unravel the alchemy-gibberish. No reasonable explanation for why they haven’t separated since they first ran into one another two months ago.

...uh.

“It’s not like  _that_ , okay?” Wrath snaps.

Sig’s brow arches, as though to ask what “that” means.

Which is... actually a good question. What did Wrath even think Sig was implying in the first place?

Instead of thinking too deeply on that, Wrath does what he does best—get angry. “What are you even _doing_ here?”

If Sig notices the poor attempt at deflection, he doesn’t mind it. Or perhaps indulges Wrath. He exhales through his nose and turns his gaze up towards the sky. “I come here, sometimes.”

Oh.

That... makes sense, Wrath concedes a little grumpily. People do come to funerals to pay their respects, after all. Everyone has a dead loved one, even an ancestor, to visit in a graveyard somewhere.

He almost asks, but—

“Second row on the left,” Sig says, “third to the middle.” He closes his eyes. “In case you were wondering.”

Wrath’s breath hitches.

Sig Curtis must be flipping  _psychic_.

He exhales slowly. Tries not to let show the way his chest relaxes, the way an unspoken fear unknots from where it got tangled deep in his belly. Looks away.

“...w-whatever.”

It’s not like he cares. He doesn’t. No. It’s not even  _him_ , anyway—someone else. Who he was  _supposed_  to be.

He can feel Sig’s eyes slide over to him. Settle there. Wrath dares to glance up and—

Blue.

He’s never really noticed before, but Sig Curtis has blue eyes. They’re a deep shade, almost navy in their darkness, but they aren’t the harshness of spilled-ink obsidian as his wife’s are. No, these eyes don’t hold a hue so deep and fathomless that all color is lost to them. Despite their darkness, they retain a distinctly blue coloration.

Blue... like Wrath’s were before—

Nope!

He is  _not_  doing this. Wrath’s automail knee clicks as he leaps to his feet. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out to snag the handle of the basket with his metal hand.

“I’m not going to eat this,” Wrath declares, waving the basket vaguely.

To this, Sig Curtis only blinks calmly. “Alright then.”

A growl rumbles in the back of Wrath’s throat. It wasn’t as though he was trying to  _hurt_  Sig with that remark, but the lack of reaction aggravates him—Sig Curtis’s features are drawn into a stoic mask. Long, broad nose, firm mouth, small eyes, thick, flat brows, it’s hard to see the shape of his jawline because of the beard but it probably isn’t anything like Wrath’s  _anyway_ —

Shivering, Wrath turns and stomps off.

What does he even _care_? Sig Curtis isn’t actually his—not  _really_. Of course Wrath wouldn’t... wouldn’t  _look_  like him. Of  _course_!

Sure, the shade of their hair is the same darkness as an ink-spill on the midnight sky, but Sig doesn’t it wear his hair in a wild mane the way Wrath does, and there are plenty of people with black hair, so it doesn’t even _matter_ in the first place! _Furthermore_ , Wrath’s complexion is clearly drawn from Izumi Curtis—at least, that would be the explanation as to why he did not inherit Sig’s tanned skin, were Wrath a human being rather than the monster he is. Sig Curtis is also wide in the shoulders and overtly muscular, where Wrath is narrow and lithe. Sig Curtis has features that are broad and stern like a mountain face, stoic and impassive, whereas Wrath’s are narrow and soft and expressive.

But...

But that’s the way children are, right? Young boys don’t have broad shoulders like adults, and their jawlines sharpen as they age, become more defined and robust. They gain muscle mass, grow taller. They...

If Wrath were to age—if he even  _is_  aging, which is a possibility, given that this body wasn’t constructed and was human to begin with—was there a possibility that his shoulders would fill out like that, that his arms would thicken with that musculature? Or would he retain this svelte physique, these narrow shoulders and slender limbs? If he didn’t gain that masculine girth, did that mean he wouldn’t grow taller—and if he did, would he look willowy, like a pale birch tree reaching towards the sky? Perhaps instead, he’d grow broader but not taller, his body more compact that massive?

What about his face? Surely his jawline would sharpen, the bone structure shifting and becoming more pronounced. But which structure would it follow?

Whose face would he grow into—his mother’s or his father’s?

He  _jerks_  at that thought.

Izumi Curtis is  _not_  his mother! And so,  _obviously_ , Sig Curtis isn’t—

They aren’t—

 _No_.

“Wrath!” A hand snags his flesh shoulder.

Wrath whirls around, raising his steel fist in anticipation, but Alphonse is quick to throw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. His eyes are wide, cautiously darting between Wrath’s clenched fist and his scowling face, evidently trying to decide which is the greater threat.

Cautiously, Wrath lowers his fist. “Don’t _sneak up on me_ like that.”

Exasperation emerges on Alphonse’s face, and he drops his hands indignantly. “I was calling your name for  _five minutes_!”

He... he was?

In fact, as Wrath looks around, it occurs to him that’s he’s wandered into a part of town he’s never seen before, one where copious shops line the streets in a desperate vying for one another’s attention, their glass windows inviting onlookers to peer at the display cases set up there. The atmosphere holds a casual cheer that belies the solitary solemnity that comes from wandering too close to death and its resting place. Wrath takes this to mean that he’s put a fair amount of distance between himself and the graveyard, which he finds strangely relieving.

...oh.

This—this stupid city. It’s clearly interfering with Wrath’s superhuman perception.

Hazel eyes search Wrath’s face, and he looks away before Alphonse can notice any lingering traces of discomfort. Wrath isn’t even sure why he’s so bothered by what just transpired. Nothing even really _happened_.

“What’s that?”

Blinking, Wrath’s dips to follow Alphonse’s, where he is met with the basket he forgot he was holding. Feigning annoyance, Wrath holds it up for Alphonse to see better. “It’s called a basket.”

The alchemist rolls his eyes. “I know what— I meant, where did you  _get_  it?” Something like realization flashes across Alphonse’s features, and his gaze grows wary. “You didn’t... _steal_ it, did you?”

“What do you think I  _am_?” Wrath snaps, offended.

Alphonse’s eyes narrow. “...that’s not an answer.”

“You  _honestly_  think I steal baskets in my free time?”

Suspicion mixes with sheepishness on Alphonse’s face. It’s an odd combination. “I mean... you don’t have money...”

Well. That’s actually a valid point. But Alphonse isn’t _allowed_ to make valid points, so  _there_!

“Money is  _stupid_ ,” Wrath retorts. Then he turns on his heel and marches off before the conversation can continue.

Behind him, there is a heavy sigh of exasperation, as _Wrath_ is being the irrational one. But regardless of that exasperation, footsteps are quick to patter after him, and before long the alchemist has fallen step beside him. There’s a look of grudging annoyance on Alphonse’s face, but it’s clearly not enough to abandon Wrath to these unfamiliar streets and storm off on his own to sulk. Then again, that makes sense, because when it comes to annoyance or exasperation or even irritation, Alphonse is far more reasonable than Wrath can ever hope to be.

Well, reasonable in terms of temperament, anyway. Wrath still thinks it’s  _beyond stupid_  for Alphonse to model himself after his absent sibling, to don a scarlet coat and black clothing and wear his lengthening hair back in a long hazel-colored ponytail. It’s as though the resemblances that already exist aren’t enough for him—the subtle similarities in their facial structures—so he needs to create his own.

But it’s stupid and Wrath has told him so. Repeatedly. And Alphonse, thus far, has been intent on shrugging him off.

Vaguely, Wrath wonders if Izumi Curtis said the same thing. If she scolded Alphonse for growing his hair out, for changing his attire to match a phantom’s. If she looked at his crimson coat and his ponytail and beat the snot out of him for it.

There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of that, though. No split lips or black eyes or forming bruises. Nothing that suggests fists flew. Not even a creased brow or signs of dejection from a sharply-worded scolding or a lecture on the value of self-identity. But then again, this is a woman who had Wrath’s throat between her hands and yet couldn’t find the resolve to squeeze.

(It probably would have been better if she had, because then Wrath wouldn’t have had to face Sig Curtis and his sorrowful blue eyes that are the same color as Wrath’s are supposed to be)

Belatedly, he realizes that Alphonse is peering at him suspiciously. He jolts and looks away.

“So...  _is_  it stolen, or—”

Relief and annoyance create an odd mixture in Wrath’s belly. He huffs as he reaches beneath the cloth to retrieve an apple from the basket. A green one, because those tend to be tarter. “Just for that, I’m not telling you.”

Then he tosses the apple in Alphonse’s direction, just to deter any further conversation. Predictable, Alphonse catches it effortlessly, because he has pretty good reflexes as far as humans go. He pins it with a pensive look, as though he can determine from sight alone whether or not it’s stolen property. Wrath just rolls his eyes, wondering what he ever did to inspire such petty distrust while he retrieves a red apple for himself.

He raises to it take a bite—

And stops.

It’s a silly thing to wonder, but he finds himself thinking about what Sig said—about just seeing Wrath in the streets and deciding to put this basket together. And even if it actually was Izumi Curtis, despite Sig’s claims, then it still means she went out of her way to do this for him. For a  _monster_.

Just... because.

That’s how mothers supposed to be, or at least that’s what Wrath always figured. That’s the ideal that he always harbored in the silence of his inner thoughts, his dreams of a loving embrace that would accept him without hesitation. Love so deep that you could drown in it, with no conditions or boundaries attached to it so you wouldn’t risk losing it entirely if you took a wrong step—something that would not flinch at his monstrosity. Little acts of kindness such as this were not beneath that, nor above it, but well within the nature of what he always imagined a mother would be.

What about a father, though? That’s... admittedly something he has never really thought about. Never really thought he needed one, much less _wanted_ one.

He lowers the apple. Blinks at it. The red skin is shiny, almost as though it had been polished. His reflection is vaguely visible in its surface. Pale face, wild dark hair, sharp teeth that faintly poke out between his lips. Violet eyes that should be blue.

At some point, he must have stopped walking, because he glimpses Alphonse’s scarlet coat several paces ahead of him. Upon realizing that Wrath isn’t following him, the alchemist stops and turns to throw a questioning look over his shoulder. Wrath ducks his head to avoid meeting it, but he can feel the weight of it regardless.

“Wrath?”

Fingernails sink into the apple’s skin.

“What’s it like,” Wrath asks quietly, “to have a father?”

A long beat of silence spans between them. Wrath can hear the mockery of a heartbeat in his ears. Maybe he was too forward, too abrupt. What is he even doing, wondering about stupid things like that?

When he finally scraps up the courage to raise his gaze, though, he is a little bewildered to find Alphonse looking so utterly  _helpless_ —his eyes round and his mouth flapping soundlessly.

“Oh,  _gee_...” Alphonse turns away, raising his free hand to scratch the back of his neck—which, Wrath has learned, he only really does when he’s nervous or flustered or too embarrassed to admit how far out of his depth he is. “You’re really asking the wrong person! I mean... my dad disappeared when I was really little, so I don’t remember— _Oh_!”

Wrath blinks as Alphonse turns back abruptly, face lit up excitedly and a finger raised as though to lecture, which only seems to emerge when he’s come across a breakthrough. “Granny said that he came back for a bit,”—the finger wilts and he falters—"but... I was in the _armor_ and I—”

“You don’t remember,” Wrath finishes flatly, feeling his shoulders slump.

He’s not even sure why he’s... disappointed? Is that what this is? It seems all of Alphonse’s most vital and relevant memories took place in the armor, and those ended up subsequently lost to the void. Really, Wrath isn’t sure why he’s so surprised, at this point.

Alphonse sends him a vaguely apologetic look, reaching up to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck again—then pauses, curiosity flickering across his face. “Why do you ask?”

 _“You’re not a human, Wrath.”_  The Master’s voice rings in his ears, cold and sharp and careless.  _“Stop acting like one.”_

“...no reason.” Wrath ends up putting the apple back in the basket. Trying not to think about the fact that Sig _must_ know that Wrath is a monster, by now. Trying not to think about what it means if he knows and did this anyway. Trying not to think about what it means if he honestly _doesn’t_ know. Trying not to think at all, really. “Don’t we have a train to catch?”

Panic sears across the alchemist’s features. “Oh, crap— _the_   _train_!”

The only reason Wrath allows Alphonse to hook him around the arm and drag him along is because it’s easier to deal with an irritated Elric than to start think about things that can never be.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very underexplored dynamic. Hell, Sig in general is a very underappreciated character, and I know Izumi is the one who actually performs human transmutation, but you have to consider the emotional toll it took on him, too.
> 
> And I'm just... in a Wrath mood. I really have no explanation.
> 
> Sort of for Father's Day, sort of not? Not sure, honestly. I just... started thinking about it and here were are, y'know?


End file.
